


Odds Are...

by agentmarvel



Series: Two Sides to Every Medal [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Gossip Girl, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Bronze (2015)
Genre: Abuse of italics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Apologies, BazTuck, Brotherly Bonding, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Evanstan Rarepair Trashcan, Family Shenanigans, Feels, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Multiple Crossovers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, So much angst, Steve Rogers Feels, abuse of flashbacks too tbh, brief mentions of substance abuse, brotherly shenanigans, general fuckery tbh, general misery, seriously the entire first chapter was painful to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-02-09 13:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12888429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentmarvel/pseuds/agentmarvel
Summary: Bad News: Steve is a mess, and Lance is completely out of control.Good News: They just might have a chance if the right people interfere.





	1. ...Stacked Against You

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. Look at me, being a productive writer and shit.  
> This is probably garbage and over-the-top dramatic, but idgaf. I like it.
> 
>  
> 
> For Becki, Leelee, and Frost:  
> I never would've even written the sequel without these wonderful ladies, much less made a series.  
> I can't thank them enough for all their support and encouragement.  
> So much love for you all; I'm so fucking lucky.

It’s been three weeks. Three weeks since Lance walked out on Steve. Three weeks since Lance last smiled or laughed or even spoke to anyone. The bruises and sore muscles have long since faded, and his voice came back in full force within the first few days, so why, pray tell, does he still hurt so bad?

The ache starts in his head, likely a side effect of all the crying and alcohol. It spreads from there, weighing his body down like stones. His arms and legs become too heavy to lift, and it feels like his spine might just snap under the pressure. That weight crushes his ribcage, constricting it, suffocating him. There’s no room for him to breathe. And if all that weren’t enough, he finds a dull, throbbing ache inside his chest. It emanates from the place his heart should be, but that’s not possible. His heart is clear on the other side of the city, in a one-bedroom, third-floor apartment.

This was never supposed to happen. For fuck’s sake, he’s known Steve for less than five months. What kind of stupid sap falls for a man he hardly knows? It’s beyond irrational for him to have fallen so hard so fast. Lance swears he’s one more cliché away from being the star of a stupid rom-com, except this won’t end like those bullshit movies. Steve won’t forgive him. They don’t get to ride off into the sunset on Steve’s motorcycle and live happily ever after. Lance doesn’t get to have a happy ending because this isn’t a fucking fairytale. This is real life.

_“I love you, Steve…”_

He knows what he’s doing isn’t healthy. It’s almost impossible for him to eat because he can’t stop comparing the taste to Steve’s skin. Sleep doesn’t come easily because every time he closes his eyes he can only see the dejected, broken look on Steve’s face. That wounded expression haunts him. It’s come down to him taking Provigil and Adderall to stay awake. He doesn’t leave his room because it’s too loud. The self-imposed silence drowns out everything, including his screaming conscience and the way Steve said his name. His words were always coated in that Brooklyn honey tone, thick and sickly sweet. It’s hard for him to even convince himself to shower because the water washes away any traces of Steve that might still be on him.

He’s clinging to whatever’s left by his last thinning thread of sanity. He’s torturing himself, but _god_ , he fucking deserves it. Everything he could’ve ever asked for was right in front of him, and he not only took it for granted, but he threw it away. Why? Because he’s afraid. It’s hard enough for Lance to admit he actually has feelings in general, let alone admit having very deep, very specific feelings for one person.

_“You what?” Steve asked softly, taking half a step back. The expression on his face was somewhere between shock and concern, and fuck it all if that wasn’t a punch to the gut for Lance. No, not a punch. That was a straight fucking line drive, and it hurt._

_“Nothing. I gotta go.”_

_“Lance, wait-“ Steve reached out, fingers nearing Lance’s chiseled jaw. If he touched Lance, if he put his hands on him, there’s no way Lance would be able to walk out. He did the only thing he could think of._

_“Get the fuck off me, Rogers!” Lance barked, bracing his hands against the larger man’s bare chest and shoving him backwards. There was enough force for Steve to take another two or three steps back, and that was all Lance needed. He yanked the bedroom door open and headed for the front door, Steve hot on his heels while trying to pull his sweatpants back on._

Maybe he should get out of bed. Maybe he should charge his phone and take a shower. Hell, maybe he should shave, for fuck’s sake. Make some lunch, or dinner, or breakfast. He’s not really sure which because he has no idea what time it is. He doesn’t even know if the suns up.

What he does know, however, is that the second he leaves his room, it’ll all come crashing down again. It’ll force him to face everything that he’s been avoiding for the last twenty-three days. Everything but the one thing he knows he can’t face: Steve.

_“Lance, please,” Steve begged, his voice cracking like he’s about to cry. “Please just stay with me.”_

_Shaking his head, Lance merely said, “This was a mistake. I can’t be in love with you.”_

In that precise moment, Lance learned exactly what it sounds like when someone’s heart is breaking. It’s a strangled sob and a fist through the drywall. It’s glass smashing against the floor and a slammed door rattling on its hinges. It’s an unspoken goodbye and its questionable permanence hanging in the air. The tension is what keeps it suspended there, holding it up like it’s tangled in a spider’s web. Or maybe it’s more like a hangman’s noose. The possibility of a permanent separation steals the air from the room, and no one can breathe.

Lance’s head is reeling, and nothing makes any sense. Maybe it’s the vodka still swimming in his veins or maybe it’s the pills eating at his nerves. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s neither. Either way, he feels like he’s going to vomit again, but he’s so empty that nothing but bile will come up.

Yeah, it’s not a just feeling. He’s definitely going to throw up.

It takes all of Lance’s remaining energy to haul himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He barely makes it before the first heave. There’s a loud thunk as his knees hit the tile, and his body doubles over. For the first time in days, he cries. Lance Tucker actually fucking cries. And for the first time since he was a small child, he feels human. He embraces the vulnerability for once, he allows himself to be weak. For the first time in his life, he not only understands he’s flawed, but he accepts it. The revelation is fucking startling, and it doesn’t become entirely real until he admits it out loud.

He’s whole-heartedly in love with Steve Rogers, and he misses him. He misses him so much it fucking _hurts_. And the sooner he makes things right, the better off they’ll both be...

 

*****

 

Five weeks. Five weeks since Lance stormed out and Steve can’t recall a time he’s ever felt this low. It’s like he’s sinking in quicksand. He’s being pulled down by some unseen force, and the harder he struggles to pull himself up, the further down it drags him. It’s got him shoulder deep at this point, so how the fuck is he supposed to get out?

All he knows is that he should’ve said it back.

_“You what?” Steve murmured, leaning back to look Lance in the eye. It looked like a storm was brewing inside him, threatening to destroy anything that dared stand in its way, and that scared the shit out of Steve. He felt like all the air had been punched from his chest. It pained him to breathe, the way Lance was looking at him._

_“Nothing. I gotta go.” Steve’s heart dropped to his feet, and he suddenly couldn’t breathe at_ all _. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to say something, do something, fucking_ move _, Rogers!_

_“Lance, wait-“ Steve reached forward on impulse, thinking maybe just a touch would ease the tension. Bad idea._

_“Get the fuck off me, Rogers!” Lance snarled, shoving Steve back. Steve stumbled back a few steps, and before he could recover entirely, Lance was already in the hallway. With a curse under his breath, Steve snatched his sweats off the floor, trying to jump and wiggle his way back into them whilst also trying to keep up with Lance. If he had to chase this man out into the street to get him to listen, then so be it. Steve was ready and more than willing._

Steve’s been holed up in Sam’s apartment for the last two and a half weeks. It wasn’t his choice, per se, but rather coercion by annoyance. Sam’s a stubborn son of a bitch, and there’s no way he was leaving Steve’s apartment without Steve in tow. He made that plenty clear.

_“If you’re gonna be all mopey and shit, you’re not gonna be left alone. Mope around my apartment instead of yours, Captain Sadass. Got rid of my crying ghosts and now it’s too quiet.”_

_“Fuck off, Sam,” Steve muttered, barely audible from underneath his blankets._

_“Steve, you better get your ass outta that bed, or I’m gonna make you get up. I don’t give a flying fuck, I will carry a grown ass man down the stairs if I have to, kicking and screaming or not.”_

Sam wasn’t kidding. He’d picked Steve up in a fireman’s carry and got him down two flights of stairs before Steve finally decided it would be easier on him (and on Sam’s back, honestly) if he just went. It’s not like Lance would be knocking on his door any time soon. What harm could it do?

A lot, turns out.

The second night of the Wilson/Rogers slumber party (yeah, Steve rolled his eyes at that too), Sam decided it’d be a wonderful idea to take Steve out for drinks. Even if he couldn’t technically get drunk, Steve figured he’d feel normal, he’d feel human, with a cold beer in his hand. That’s what he needed. To feel.

But everywhere he looked, every time he turned around, he only saw Lance.

There was a man playing pool that sounded just like Lance. It was jarring to hear the man laugh, and Steve turned around so fast he thought his head would keep spinning without the rest of his body. There was an endless list of awful things Steve would do to hear Lance laugh right then.

Another man in a red track jacket caught his attention next. He was tucked away in a corner booth, making out with a presumably attractive blonde. Between the jacket and the way his dark hair was styled, Steve’s heart dropped into his stomach. But a slight turn of the man’s head made it blatantly obvious that it wasn’t Lance. His jaw didn’t have the same razor sharp cut to it. Steve let out a breath of relief for that one.

The one that fucked him up, though, was the bartender. She was a striking little lady with flaming red hair piled up in a bun. Harmless enough, right? Steve thought so until she turned around. Their gazes crossed paths, and she zeroed in on him like a hawk.

Leaning across the counter with a sympathetic smirk, she’d said, “You look like you need something stronger. Is everything okay?”

Steve couldn’t answer. The girl had these wide, wonderful eyes that crinkled in the outer corners when she smiled. _Like Lance_. His undivided attention was focused solely on her irises, how they looked like a crystal clear shade of blue but under the unforgivingly low lights, they paled to a color similar to the concrete under Steve’s feet as he bolted out the door. _Just like Lance_.

He felt awful for bailing on Sam without saying more than “I can’t do this”, but in all reality, he couldn’t. The reminders made his predicament glaringly obvious. It didn’t matter where he went or what he did or who he was with. There was no way it would distract him from the fact that he didn’t say it back.

_“Why are you acting like this?” Steve shouted after Lance. He watched Lance stop and turn slightly, jaw clenching like a vice. Rather than respond, he just grabbed his shirt from the arm of the couch and tugged it on._

_Silence._

_“Lance, talk to me.”_

_Silence._

_Lance paused at the front door of Steve’s apartment only long enough to tug his sneakers back on. He couldn’t (or wouldn’t) even look at Steve. An ache formed in Steve’s rib cage. It was a dull, throbbing ache at first, but with every second that passed, it grew sharper, like Lance was slowly twisting a knife into his chest._

_“Lance, please,” Steve begged. His voice cracked beneath the weight of his heavy heart, and god, he tried his hardest to keep his tone even... “Please just stay with me.”_

_“This was a mistake. I can’t be in love with you,” Lance muttered as he opened the door and just walked out._

Steve’s spent the last two hours staring at the same spot on the wall. The water in the shower has long since run cold, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. Truth be told, this is the most he’s felt in days now. He’s cold enough that he’s trembling, but not cold enough to find the strength to stand up. Instead, he stays seated at the bottom of the bathtub, letting the freezing water pelt his back.

_The second the door slammed, Steve crumbled. Whatever crutch was holding him up, keeping him strong, was kicked out from beneath him. He lashed out at the closest thing to him, a glass-top coffee table, and slammed his heel against the edge. It flew across the room, smashing into the wall. The top of the table shattered, broken glass scattering across the floor. Its frame, made of wood and held together by screws, splintered and collapsed._

_Something between a yell and a sob escapef from his throat, and he launched his fist into the closest wall, leaving a gaping crater in the drywall._

The only thing Steve registers is that he has to fix this. He needs to say it back. The sooner he does, the better off they’ll both be.

 

*****

 

“Open the fucking door, Lance.”

Someone’s banging on his front door. They’ve been at it for a few minutes while Lance drags his ass out of bed. His brain screams that it’s all too early for him to be awake (sleep is a rare occurrence for him nowadays), but the clock on the stove reminds him that it’s just past noon.

Begrudgingly, he throws the door open, ready to yell at whomever to go the fuck away so he can get some sleep. But once he realizes who’s standing in front of him, he’s suddenly wide awake.

Honestly, this was the last person Lance expected to find on his front porch.

“Jesus Christ, you look like shit,” his brother mutters, looking him up and down before pushing past Lance to look around the living room.

“Fuck you, Carter. What do you want?” Lance shoves the door shut, eyeballing the younger man with nothing short of suspicion. Rightful suspicion, might he add. Nothing good ever comes from Carter resurfacing. His brother is nothing but trouble; he always has been.

It’s not difficult to tell that they’re related. Carter’s basically just the discounted version of Lance. They share the same chiseled bone structure: defined jaw, chin cleft, high, hollow cheeks. Both sport the same full lips and cruel smirks, the same perfectly styled, cocoa-colored coif, the same wide eyes, colored like storm clouds reflecting off the ocean; all attributes compliments of their shared mother.

They’re more alike than they like to let on. Commonalities are a dime a dozen, and not all of them are physical. Arrogance is a shared trait between the two. They’re both unbearably smug and entirely self-centered. Without justification, it’s habit for them to both be absolute pricks. But when one of them wants something, it’s plenty easy to turn on the charm, and they won’t stop until they get what they’re after. Some may call it motivation while others prefer to call it tenacity or self-entitlement. Hell, they even share the same oral fixation (tongue in cheek, lip biting and licking, holding things between their lips) and a penchant for the same type of partners. They’ve even passed partners back and forth over the years, particularly the rather talented ones.

But where they differ makes the division of blood very clear. Lance has the signature Tucker look, with the way his forehead creases with his incredulous expressions and how his eyes will crinkle at the corners whenever he smiles or laughs. Not to mention he inherited his father’s naturally glowing complexion. He’s never required trips to the salon for tanning or any of that shit. Alternatively, he was also born with the Tucker talent. Lance excels in everything he tried his hand at, obviously. _Hello_ , he’s a fucking gold medalist!

Carter, on the other hand, is clearly a Baizen. He’s got the one-sided dimple when he smiles and unfortunately received his father’s god-awful hairline. Until he left New York, Carter had been awfully pale, almost sickly looking in some lighting. And those dark circles under his eyes did him no favors either. Whether that was another horrid family trait or a direct symptom of his foray into multiple addictions, no one may ever know. One thing is certain, though. He’s a spoiled little rich boy who’s had everything he’s ever wanted just handed over by dear old Mommy and Daddy (Lance has never been a fan of his step-father, Gregory. Perhaps that’s why he and his mother no longer speak). He’s never had to work for anything a day in his life, and that’s evident in the way he carries himself.

Flopping down on the couch, a smirk curls the corner of Carter’s mouth.

“Do I really have to have a reason to come see my big brother?”

Lance narrows his eyes, trying to read Baizen’s expression. If he’s got an ulterior motive for coming around, it’s not obvious. He’s wearing dark colored jeans that look like they were crafted to fit his slender body like a glove. They’re coupled with a standard white t-shirt (clearly fresh pressed, not even the slightest of wrinkles), a black jacket (mixed fabric, looks like leather and suede; Coach, obviously), and a pair of Uri Minkoff boots (ironically, Lance was gifted with the same pair before they were released to the public). He’s not chasing money this time, and he doesn’t appear to be after a favor.

So, with a healthy dose of skepticism, Lance swallows his pride and decides to try civility.

“Let me rephrase that,” he corrects, settling into an armchair on the other side of the room. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Carter snorts, rolling his eyes.

“You and I both know you don’t want me here,” he counters with a pointed expression. Lance nods with a noncommittal shrug.

“Wanna cut to the chase then? I’ve got shit to do.” Lance is trying. He’s trying so hard. Sometimes it’s necessary to put on a brave façade and face the world, or in this case, face the asshole sitting in his living room.

“You’ve been M.I.A. for weeks, and people are noticing.” Well, shit. That’s not what Lance expects him to say. Really, he wasn’t sure what to expect, but the notion that Carter’s shown up because he gives a shit is probably the last thing on the list. They’d been close when they were younger, but that all fell apart when Lance was in his early twenties. That’s a story for another time, though…

“And not just noticing,” Carter continues. “They’re starting to worry. Caroline called me last night…”

Lance lets a humorless laugh. “That’s fucking rich.”

“She noticed your social media has been dead for weeks. Come on, Tuck. Even _you_ know that’s not normal for you.” There’s something sympathetic in his tone, and Lance has this sudden urge to just smack the shit out of him.

“Tech detox. Helps me focus.”

“Bullshit!” Carter shouts, rising to his feet. “You’re a textbook fucking narcissist! You can’t function without the validation that comes with fame, and you know it! Maybe you can fool everyone else, but you can’t lie to me, Lance. I know you better than anyone.”

Lance doesn’t wait for his brother to finish his sentence. As soon as Carter stands, Lance is charging across the room. He grabs him by the collar of his jacket with both hands and shoves him against the nearest wall.

“You don’t know jack fucking shit about me,” he barks. “You have no _fucking_ idea the kinda shit I’ve been dealing with lately.”

“Because you don’t tell anyone, you dick! You bottle everything up because you don’t want anyone to know that you’re not as heartless as you pretend to be. It’s pride, Lance. Your fucking pride is what’s going to ruin your life.”

That hits home, and it _hurts_. It stings like a swarm of angry wasps in his chest.

It’s not something that _will_ ruin his life; it’s something that’s _currently_ ruining his life.

His pride has pushed him to abandon everything he’s ever loved, aside from gymnastics. He’s given up on his family, his friends. He’s shut down relationships, both intimate and platonic, that made him happy because happiness meant contention to him. He isolated himself because other people fucked with his focus, and without focus, he couldn’t be the best. He discarded Steve like he was nothing because his pride told him he had to have control. He needed the upper hand, and having the upper hand meant he had to leave before he could be hurt, even if that meant he had to hurt Steve.

Carter must have noticed the tears Lance has been fighting back, because all he does is ask, “Who is it?”

Lance can’t stop himself. He spills everything from his first day in the gym (“God, Carter, I’d never seen someone so beautiful in my life.”) to the way things ended (“That’s the worst I’ve ever felt. I told him I love him, and then I just walked out like it was nothing.”). The whole time, he cries. Everything comes out, and for some strange reason, Carter is just letting it happen. He just sits there on the floor with his older brother, listening to him while he pours his slowly thawing heart out.

There’s that vulnerable feeling again, and Lance can’t bring himself to care. This is by far the strangest he’s ever felt. Who he is right now, he’s never met that man in his life. But, he supposes, this is what happens when you bottle up two decades worth of emotions. Sooner or later, it’ll overflow, and when it does, a choice has to be made: relieve the pressure and accept the change or deny it and continue to repress until it becomes volatile. The best option is the former, and Lance knows that. He knows that he has to make a change if he ever wants to try mending things with Steve.

“Sounds like we’ve got some work to do, then, huh?” Carter chuckles, nudging Lance with his elbow. Lance cocks an eyebrow, side-eyeing him.

“We?”

“Yeah, _we_.” The skepticism must be evident because Carter scoffs, “Don’t give me that look. You’re a charmer, but you specialize in charming people into getting naked. Romance is not your forte, Tuck.”

 _Well, he’s not wrong_ , Lance muses. He can already see the cogs turning in Carter’s scheming little brain, and so far, he likes where this is headed.

“Listen, I’ve got a long list of things we’ll need to pick up. Once you manage to make yourself look less homeless, we’ll head out. I’ll explain everything on the way.”

Lance nods and stands, extending a hand to Carter. In the spirit of making changes, of becoming a better man, there’s a snap decision made. He wraps his arms around Baizen, pulling him into a firm, genuine hug.

“Thank you,” he mumbles just loud enough for Carter to hear.

“Even though you’re a royal prick, you’re still my brother,” Carter answers. “But seriously, you need to go clean up. I wasn’t kidding when I said you look like shit.”

For the first time in the seven weeks he’s been away from Steve, Lance laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments would be pretty rad! : D


	2. ...Evening Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. A few things to be addressed first:
> 
> 1.) Obviously, all characters in this are fictional. All of them. The businesses mentioned, however, are real, for the sake of authenticity and accuracy. No one addressed in conjunction with any of these businesses is actually employed by the mentioned company.
> 
> 2.) The shield bit is courtesy of a post on tumblr by @spacebuck
> 
> 3.) This chapter really got away from me. It's almost triple my usual word count. Honestly, I could write an entire series about the shit Lance and Carter get up to. I really enjoy writing the relationship between the two of them. That expansion gives a little bit of insight as to why Lance is the way he is. It'll be touched on a bit more in the next chapter.

Steve’s home now. He’s back in his own apartment.

_“You’re wound up tighter than a pair of Clint’s pants on ‘80s night, man,” Sam chuckled. “I ain’t doin’ you any favors by tryin’a make you stay here. I’m not your babysitter, and you sure as shit ain’t no baby. I’m gonna take your ass home, Steve. You’ll probably sleep better there anyways.”_

True, he didn’t sleep well in Sam’s apartment. But that was nothing to do with Sam and everything to do with Sam’s neighbors. The troubles of thin walls and a newborn. That, and Steve really only slept when his body forced him to at that point. A wailing child did no favors though, even when Steve was physically too exhausted to keep his head up. Most nights, he had to sleep with his shield over his head. The vibrations created by sound waves don’t exactly stand up to a dome of vibranium.

(He found that out one night when he could hear Banner’s snoring from three floors below.)

Every day, Sam checks in. He shows up unannounced whenever he deems it necessary. It would probably be incredibly annoying if it weren’t for the fact that he usually brings food. Once a week, usually on Tuesday, Natasha joins Sam on his visit. Those are the days Steve looks forward to the most. That’s when he feels most human.

Natasha always spoils Steve when she comes around. She always brings a tin full of zefir (she wrote Зефи́р on the label a while back, but she knows damn well Steve’s not familiar with Russian) and a large plate of syrniki and angel wings, complete with a side of strawberry varenye. It’s always fresh and warm when she walks in the door, and Steve can’t help but wonder if she has this routine down to the minute with her baking.

She never stays more than an hour unless Steve asks her to, and he’s definitely had those days. They’re fewer and further between now, only because he’s grown to prefer being alone. She sticks around long enough to make sure that Steve’s holding up alright, have a cup of coffee, maybe fill him in on missions he’s missed as of late, and then she presses a kiss to him temple and leaves, reassuring that she’ll see him the following week.

And oddly, she always utters the same phrase on her way out the door:

“Будь сильным, Стив. Он вернется.”

Then she gives Steve this understanding, sympathetic smile, like she knows exactly what he’s going through without any explanation on his part. He really wouldn’t be surprised if she knew about everything, though. Somehow, she _always_ knows…

As soon as Sam’s gone, Steve grabs his phone from the kitchen table. He stands there and stares at his screen for a moment, then pulls up his inbox. His fingers know the pattern. It’s the same message he taps out every day; the same message he’s sent for the last fifty-one days.

**I miss you.**

According to the read receipts (or lack thereof), no one’s read any of Steve’s messages.

He’s always tempted to send a different three-word text. The only thing that’s ever stopped him from doing so is the fact that he wants to be able to look Lance in the eye the first time he says it. He doesn’t really dream very often anymore, but that’s the one thing he does dream about.

_“Say it again.”_

_“I love you,” Steve sighs softly against Lance’s palm before pressing a kiss to it. Lance lets out a contented breath, smiling, watching how Steve kisses his way from wrist to elbow to shoulder. Every kiss Steve leaves behind is accompanied by those words. It’s like they stick to his lips and a little bit at a time rubs off on Lance’s skin. When Steve reaches the outer edge of his collar bone, the small pecks shift into open-mouthed kisses. There’s no lust or aggression or pressure behind it this time, not like the other times. As the trail moves towards the hollow of Lance’s throat, Steve becomes acutely aware of the way Lance’s muscles keep contracting and relaxing. It’s a perfectly timed loop, as if a string quartet were playing through his skin. If it were possible, Steve would gladly listen to this for the rest of his life. Even if it meant he’d never hear another sound other than this._

_When the trail turns upward, dotting the column of his throat with more chaste, closed off kisses, the quartet becomes an orchestra. Steve’s never heard a symphony of this caliber with his own ears. The sound of the hitch in Lance’s breathing as Steve’s fingers tangle in his hair is a change of tempo. His heart is racing. Steve can feel it. It’s the crescendo he’s been expecting, and it feels just as good as it sounds. But the best part, the highlight of the entire piece, is the end. All the build-up has led directly to this moment. Steve’s mouth moves just beneath Lance’s, and he whispers out that last “I love you” before their lips meet. There’s no time for Lance to respond. It’s the grand finale, and it demands the most attention._

_The kiss is nothing so delicate as symphony. It’s a slow burning fire. When Lance’s lips touch Steve’s, the sparks start to fly. When he sighs into Steve’s open mouth, that spark ignites a flame. It’s all consuming, threatening to burn Steve alive if the flames are fanned. That’s precisely what happens the second Lance parts his lips just a little wider, inviting – **begging** – for Steve to deepen it. He can’t deny that request. And as soon as he gives Lance what he so desperately craves, that controlled burn becomes a forest fire. It’s bright and brash and downright painful at some points because Steve doesn’t think they can get any fucking closer, no matter how urgently he wishes. The only remaining space is between their hips, and it’s no more than a few scant inches. But to Steve those inches feel like miles. There’s practically an entire ocean keeping them separated. With full intention of further stoking the fire, Steve adjusts so that one hand is pressed to Lance’s lower back and the other is resting on his hip. He knows he’s throwing gasoline into a live flame, but it’s so worth it. He tugs Lance forward until the gap closes just as he licks straight into the brunette’s mouth. The groan Steve swallows is enough to leave him a smoldering pile of ash, and he’s completely okay with it._

_But in the midst, there’s a breath of fresh air._

_“Please, Stevie, say it again.”_

_“I love you.”_

_“Again.”_

_“I love you.”_

_“Steve…” Lance is so breathless. He sounds like he’s halfway around the world, voice low and raspy coming from his red, kiss-bitten lips. But this is Steve’s Achilles' heel. It’s the only thing in the world that could likely make or break him. Even Superman has a weakness. So Steve does the only logical thing he can think of._

_“I love you, Lance.”_

Steve is so fucked. Just the thought has his heart hammering in his chest. He feels like a junkie scrambling for their next hit. It’s been too long, way too long, and he’s having withdrawals. He’s anxious and irritable and restless. His concentration wanes without warning. Sometimes his body overheats to the point of him breaking a sweat, sometimes it’s so cold that he doesn’t think he can move without shattering. This is a never-ending detox. Just let him have his fix, god damn it.

With a heavy sigh, Steve puts his phone back on the table face down and sets about doing menial tasks. His apartment looks like a nuke went off at the center. If his mother ever saw him in this kind of mess, she’d’ve lost it. Sarah Rogers kept a clean home, and up until recently, Steve had too.

He tackles the dishes first. There aren’t many, mostly just silverware and mugs, so it doesn’t take long. Then he takes the trash out, but not before asking Mrs. Adler on the second floor if she needs hers taken out as well. It’s difficult for her to navigate stairs alone with her sight going, so Steve always offers. After trash comes the first load of laundry, and Steve’s grateful that he can walk away from that one for a bit while the washer does the work. While it’s spinning, he pops down to the third floor to see Mr. Shea about borrowing his drywall knife. Steve apologized profusely to the building manager for the hole in the wall and bought a patch kit and paint to fix it (she was incredibly understanding about the whole situation and offered to have maintenance come up and fix it instead; Steve declined, opting to clean up his own mess).

Once he has everything ready, he sets to work. Whilst he is meticulously curving and feathering the edges around the joint compound (he’s much prefer it look like nothing ever happened), he hears a faint knock at his door. Syd from across the hall must’ve forgotten his key again. After the fourth time in two months, they’d agreed Steve should have a copy. Kid locks himself out more often than he even leaves, Steve would swear on it. He snags the lone ring from its hook on the wall and opens the door, fully prepared to hand the key off to the long-haired scatter brain. But the sight he’s greeted with is far from.

On the other side stands a man that looks an awful lot like Lance Tucker.

Steve’s throat goes dry, breath stuck to the inside. His blood ices over in his veins at the same time his heart bursts into flames. It’s not Lance, but dear god, the resemblance is uncanny. Same eyes, same jaw, same lips. Even their facial structures were nearly identical. But this man is a bit younger than Lance. His nose is just a hair wider and his brow bones sat just barely higher.

Probably a bit pathetic that Steve can pick out details like that, but he’s been verging on obsession with Lance since that day in the gym.

The person in front of him has an oversized black garment bag draped over his forearm and a small white envelope between his fingers. His steely stare meets Steve’s head-on, and the corners of his mouth curl upward into a smile identical to Lance’s.

“Steve Rogers? My name’s Carter Baizen.”

 

*****

 

Lance has to confess, he’s impressed. Truly, he was a bit skeptical of Carter’s abilities in the romance department, considering his string of failed relationships and at least one tanked engagement. Once they were in the car and on the road, details started coming out.

“We have to drop by Fiola first. Owner owes me a favor,” Carter declares with an almost unsettling grin. “Then we’re going to Ultra Violet on 31st.”

Lance cocks an eyebrow, shooting his brother a questioning look. Carter huffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes, nudging Lance’s arm with his elbow.

“C’mon, big brother. Don’t you trust me?” The smile on his lips reminds Lance of a shark, sharp, toothy, and dangerous. But Lance has spent his entire life surrounded by sharks. Hell, there were a few times that he felt like he was the blood in the water while they circled him just beneath the surface. He’s not intimidated. He just matches each point of the smile and huffs out a laugh.

“I don’t have much of a choice right now, do I?”

“Not particularly, no.”

With an overdramatic roll of his eyes, Lance just reaches forward and turns up the radio.

It doesn’t take nearly as long as he’d expected to get to Fiola. It’s less than twenty minutes before they’re walking in the front door. As soon as they cross the threshold, Lance takes his sunglasses off and peers around. It’s been quite some time since he’d eaten here, but it doesn’t look like it’s changed much. Still the same rustic, calm feel and classy, upscale décor. He smiles to himself with a chuckle as he spies a booth in the corner with an extra long table cloth. He’d gotten a stellar blow job under that table when he was in D.C. for Nationals years ago.

The hostess behind the podium lights up the second she sees Carter. She’s a cute little thing; dark brown curls, wide hazel eyes, and freckles smattered across a caramel complexion. Lance can only muse that they’ve probably fucked once or twice.

Surprisingly, Carter speaks first.

“Gina, sweetheart, how are you?” He leans against the stand, effortlessly looking all too flirtatious. That’s certainly a card Lance has played in his life. More times than he can count, and more often than he cares to admit.

“Mister Baizen, hello! I’m doing well, thank you. Would you like your usual table, sir?” Oh, the poor girl. She’s an absolute sucker for an attractive man, and no one would say Carter isn’t, much less with Lance right beside him.

“Unfortunately, I’m here for business, not a pleasure visit.” His voice drops a little lower on the last two words, saccharine seeping through his tone. Lance swears the girl wavers on her feet for a fraction of a second, and he has to stifle a laugh because yeah, he taught him that when they were teenagers. He watches Carter bite the inside of his lip for a second before adding, “Would you mind terribly if I asked to speak with Giani?”

The girl shook her head, telling Carter that he’s more than welcome to go back to Mister Rossi’s office. Carter gestures Lance to follow as he heads towards a hallway not meant for the public. They follow the hall straight to the end, and Lance knocks sharply on the door in front of them. From inside, he hears a quiet, “yes?”

“Open up, pal. It’s Carter.”

Immediately, the door opens. A small, somewhat disheveled Italian man stands before them, looking at Carter with the same lit up smile Gina greeted them with. _Did Carter fuck this guy too?_

“Mister Baizen, to what do I owe your visit?” His voice is fairly hushed and difficult to understand through his accent. Carter shoots Lance a wink, asks that he excuse the two for a moment, and turns back to the man.

“I’m afraid I must collect on that favor this evening.” For a moment, Rossi looks somewhat frightened, but Carter is quick to placate (another trick he learned from Lance) as he steps into the office and closes the door. “It’s nothing major, don’t worry. I just need…”

It takes less than three minutes before Carter is stepping out of the office, giving Mister Rossi a firm handshake.

“… I greatly appreciate this, Giani. You’re a good man.”

The two depart, and as they get back on the road, Carter fills Lance in on the details of the brief discussion he’d just had. Lance can’t help but shake his head in mild incredulity at what he’s hearing. It’s difficult for him to believe Carter would call in favors of this magnitude for anyone other than himself, let alone for the brother that’s actively avoided him for the last couple years. However, Lance was always taught to never look a gift horse in the mouth.

If this is the _start_ of Carter’s plan, then Lance is overwhelmingly interested in seeing what else he has up his sleeve. It’s impractical and over the top and stupid expensive, and that’s just how Lance likes it. Frankly, he’ll spare no expense to ensure that everything tonight is absolutely perfect, because that’s what Steve deserves: perfection.

Lance is practically buzzing out of his skin as they arrive at Ultra Violet. He’d had a pretty good idea of what’s inside, but what he’s actually greeted with is far beyond what he expected. It’s so bright, so colorful, so lively. Truth be told, he wants all of it. He can’t help but look around, thinking about what would look best in which room of his home. It’s such a welcome environment, especially with the hints of cinnamon and berries that linger in the air, an undertone to the heavy floral scent.

Strange almost, how calm Lance feels right now. Never in his life did he expect that something like this would bring him so much peace. The war raging on in his head has been muted since he walked in the door. If only he could show Steve. Nothing would ever be as beautiful to Lance as him, but this is certainly a close second.

For a moment, he actually considers that he might actually be bipolar. He’d been in such a deep rut the last few weeks, dug into the dirt like an open plot in a cemetery. But since his little heart-to-heart with Carter ended, since Carter offered to help, Lance feels like he’d entered a manic state. There’s this rush of energy and enthusiasm inside of him that he hasn’t felt this intensely since he won his gold medal. He’s actually excited about what he’s doing, and he’s enjoying it without selfishness. It’s entirely for someone else. Even if Steve doesn’t forgive him, even if Steve hates him, Lance will at least have peace of mind knowing that he did all of this for something so uncertain.

That’s when Lance realizes that he’s most definitely not bipolar. This feeling, the one blossoming in his chest like spring flowers, isn’t mania. It’s hope.

He’d forgotten how it feels to be hopeful.

“Lance,” Carter whispers, jabbing him in the ribs with his elbow. Lance blinks, looking at his brother with a scowl. “Did you hear anything I just said to you?”

Lance shakes his head, apologizing under his breath.

“If you see anything you think he’d like or anything you’d like for him, please let Susan know.” Carter gestures to middle-aged woman now standing in front of them. She waves shyly from her place, and Lance flashes her a smile of acknowledgement. “She’s the best in the city. She’ll take good care of you.”

“I’ve actually been eyeing a few already,” Lance responds straight away. He gestures to a few particular setups before looking to Susan. “Can you duplicate if necessary?”

“Certainly. As many as you need, dear. We keep an abundant overstock this time of year.” Lance mulls it over for a moment, trying all too hard to do the math in his head. Susan and Carter share a look that Lance can’t quite reach, so he just narrows his eyes, eyes darting back and forth between the two.

Finally, Susan spoke again.

“Come with me. We’ll work up a quick diagram of what you’re after for my delivery team, and then we’ll get to work on your request.”

An ear-to-ear smile splits what’s left of Lance’s façade as he wraps an arm around the sweet woman’s shoulders, giving her a squeeze.

“You’re a god damn saint, y’know that?” She just smiles and pats the hand on her shoulder.

“I know.”

 

*****

 

_Fiola. 8 o’clock._

_Your driver will arrive around 7:30._

_Don’t be late, Steve._

_\- xo_

 

What in the actual fuck is going on?

Steve stares at the suit in front of him. It’s incredible, and he’s speechless. A navy three-piece is settled on the hanger as to not disturb the perfection of a fresh press. Fresh enough that Steve could still feel the warmth of the press through the fabric of the bag. The jacket is single-breasted with standard notch lapels and two buttons at the front. A button-down shirt, a slightly darker shade of blue, is hung pristinely beneath the jacket, trapping the waistcoat in between. Slung around the hanger’s hook is a traditional tie. It’s a medium brown with lighter blue dots. Steve never would’ve guess that those colors would all work together.

In the bottom of the bag is a box. An awfully large box, actually. Steve knows exactly what it is the second he grabs it. It’s a shoe box. And inside is a pair of leather lace-ups, dark brown and recently polished. They’re perfect. The whole thing is. It’s stunning, elegant, and debatably unnecessary. Sure, the restaurant is high class joint, but Steve thinks this could be a bit _too_ classy. He won’t argue, though. Their food is amazing.

According to Steve’s watch, it’s a quarter to six, meaning he’s got an hour and a half to get himself prepared. It won’t take him nearly that long to get ready, or so he likes to think. One could say he has a bit of a predilection for lollygagging. Actually, one _did_ say that once…

_“C’mon, Cap! You’ve been in there for almost an hour!” Steve could hear Clint pacing up and down the hall, and every five minutes or so (sometimes less) he’d stop to bang on the door and ask if Steve’s done yet._

_At first, it genuinely was because Steve was goofing off. He’d brought his phone in with him and after realizing that he’d finishes Sam’s recommendation playlist, as well as Clint’s and Bruce’s, decided to start on his playlist from Natasha. A lot of the songs were so catchy that Steve found himself swaying his hips to whatever beat came on. The swaying progressed to bopping around and general bad dancing. But when a song came on that Steve knew, he went full on performance mode, which included singing at the top of his lungs._

_But after so long of Clint asking and Steve not responding, the motive for staying put became entertainment. One thing Steve learned early on is that Clint is hilarious when he’s annoyed. It had become a game amongst the team to push his buttons. Don’t go pitying him for it, though. Clint has been well aware of the game since the beginning and is a part of other potentially reputation-ruining team games._

_A few of Steve’s favorite choice phrases from that night included:_

_“Get outta there before you prune up and look your age!”_

_“Jesus, Steve! Are you polishing your flagpole or somethin’?”_

_“I’m gonna come in there and spangle your fucking stars in about three seconds, Rogers.”_

_“Are you kidding me? You’ve already been defrosted, you glorified Otter-Pop! You literally do not_ need _that much hot water!”_

_After close to two hours, Steve finally gave up. He shut the water off, wrapped himself in his towel, and gathered up his stuff. When he opened the door, he was greeted by a rather irritated Clint. If the bulging vein in his forehead wasn’t telling enough, his snark sure cleared it up._

_“About time, you inconsiderate human shake weight. There better be hot water left or I will probably teabag you in your sleep.”_

_Steve chuckled, playing the innocence card. He looked at Clint like he’d done nothing wrong, and he swore, if Clint rolled his eyes any harder, they’d fall outta his damn head._

_“Don’t have time for your lollygagging,_ Steven _. I smell like swamp ass and bad decisions.”_

_Typical Clint. He’s brash, bold, crass, and completely unfiltered. It’s refreshing to be around that kind of honesty. No nonsense, no sugar-coating, no bullshit. Just straight up raw truth. Well, most of the time…_

Steve watches a few rivulets of water run down the curve of his bicep. He’s intrinsically hypnotized by the way the drips run down his body, beading on his skin before rolling away. They chase the suds down the drain, intermittently mixing and mingling in the small cyclone created by the pressure of gravity. Steve almost wishes that the soap lathered in different colors. He can only imagine the beautiful works of art that he’d be able to find on that floor.

The strident fall of water almost balance out in Steve’s mind to the soft pitter patter of a storm letting up. He’s always loved those few precious moments before the clouds split to return the sun. When the rain slows and the gloomy atmosphere becomes a few shades less solemn, that’s where Steve feels safe. That sound is what keeps him grounded, makes him feel like he’s at home.

It’s so peaceful and warm, and he wishes he could stay like this for hours. But if he stays for much longer, he’ll be late. The note was very specific about _not_ being late, and Steve wasn’t interested in finding out what his tardiness could cost him. Rather than waste more time (he’s pretty sure he’s been in there for at least half an hour), Steve finally shuts that water off. After drying his upper body, he wraps the towel around his waist and looks in the mirror. He’s still got somewhat dark circles under his eyes, but they’ve lightened considerably compared to a week or so prior. The rest of his body has given up on leeching the color from his face, so he’s a few hues above death. He looks a little healthier since being back in his own place. Except…

Good lord, Steve needs a haircut. Preferably sooner rather than later, too. He didn’t realize just how long his hair has gotten with not cutting it for a few months. To assess the damage, his fingers thread through it to hold some up. A dry laugh catches in the back of his throat as a thought crosses his mind.

_This definitely is not a military-approved cut._

But it’s something he can work with. He might even kind of like this look on himself. It certainly could start to grow on him (no pun intended). Especially when he factors in the beard that’s blanketing his lower jaw. It’s not unruly or unkempt or unappealing. As long as he keeps up on line-ups and trims, it won’t get that way. Yeah, he can definitely work with this…

It takes him only a few minutes to actually get his hair styled into something he really likes. Quickly, he brushes his teeth before heading back to his bedroom to get dressed.

7:15 rolls around and Steve looks fucking _sharp_. The suit fits him like a glove. Every inch fits exactly as it should, like the suit had been handcrafted specifically for him. There’s a taper to the trousers that fits his legs a little closer than most slim cuts, and the jacket can accommodate his thick arms and broad shoulders, but when buttoned, it shapes to the narrowness of his lower torso. The light patterning on the tie even matches the color of Steve’s eyes.

“God damn,” he murmurs to himself, looking himself over in the mirror. Turning just slightly on his heel, he checks out how tightly the pants hug the curve of his ass. He lets a low whistle slide. This is probably the best Steve’s ever looked in his life, and he’s no slouch. It’s definitely a confidence booster.

With his head held high and his heart on his sleeve, Steve heads downstairs with six minutes to spare.

 

*****

 

The third stop on Carter’s list is the most logical of the day, but also the most time consuming. Not in the time spent there, but rather the drive. With traffic (and Carter’s incessant need to speed), it takes them just under an hour to reach Silver Spring. Why the fuck they had to get this shit in Maryland is anyone’s guess. But at least he’s not stuck in traffic. Or in Bethesda.

It’s not the first place of this variety that they’ve gone to. Carter had a spur of the moment idea and just had to drive clear out of their way to pop by Imperial on 17th. He reemerges within five minutes, toting two brown paper bags. They’re laid carefully in the back seat, and he just tells Lance, “Don’t worry. You’ll find out later.”

By the time they exit Great Shoals, Lance has a bag of Pomme Aronia, Riptide, Bayside Mist, and Syrah (all separately wrapped, thank god) hanging from one arm and a box filled with his new virtual stockpile of Hards in the other. Black Twig Apple, Blackberry, Plum, Bosc and Bartlett Pear, Berry Draft, Cherry; you name it, he probably bought it. He’ll admit that he probably went a _little_ bit overboard on that one, but he figures it’s better to err on the side of caution. There’s no way to know what Steve likes when it comes to this, and if things go wrong, Lance won’t have to make a trip to the liquor store for at least a week.

“Jesus, Tuck,” Carter snorts, watching the way Lance carefully adds his purchases to the collection of bags.

“Variety, Baz. Plus it’s not all for tonight,” he cuts back with a smirk, climbing into the passenger seat once more.

On the drive back to DC, Lance carefully calculates just how much time they have left. He knows there are two more stops to make, and Carter still has a few more phone calls to make, but they should be able to get that done in three and a half hours, right?

Fuck, Lance hopes so. He’s still got things to do before he heads out (hopefully) for the night. This is not something he can be late for. Not if he’s going to straighten his shit out and be a better man.

But what if he doesn’t? That’s something he hadn’t considered yet. What if he _couldn’t_ be different? Couldn’t be _better_? If Steve forgives him and he slips right back into being the same old shitty excuse for a person, would they survive it, or would Steve leave him? Lance has a conscious awareness that he Steve is way too good for him. He’s under no illusion that Steve deserves someone far better. Someone who can give Steve everything under the sun. Lance desperately wants to believe that he can make this a permanent change. In fact, he’s almost certain he can. But what if?

The drive back seems so much shorter in retrospect. Lance is sufficiently distracted for most of it, staring out the window while his mind spins like a centrifuge. They make a quick stop at some market place before heading off to cross the last item of the list.

_“An organic grocery store? Are you serious? And are we in fucking Petsworth?”_

_“Yes, yes, and yes. Picking up the second half of that,” he gestured to the paper bags behind his seat, “so we can make sure your boyfriend gets something he’s familiar with.”_

_“Not my boyfriend,” Lance muttered, suddenly taking a vast interest in his fingernails. He missed what must be Carter’s 56 th eye roll today._

_“Not yet.” Boyfriend. Lance really likes the sound of that._

Their last visit is down on L Street, a well-known custom tailor shop. Carter mentions that he frequently does business here, and their work is the highest quality in the country. Lance can’t argue with that, so he follows Carter inside.

A man meets them the moment they walk in and ushers them somewhat hurriedly to the fitting rooms. He directs them to the furthest one down, on the left side, and tells them that the owner will be with them shortly. Carter just shrugs and pushes the door open.

There are no less than four rolling racks set up in the room. One filled with button-downs of all sorts of fabrics and colors, while another is filled with trousers and slacks. The third has a healthy display of suit jackets, blazers, and sport coats. There may have been a cardigan or two in there, but Lance can’t be entirely sure. The rack at the far end of the room, though, is by far the most garish display in the entire store. Literal rainbows of ties line every tier; standard neck ties, flat end ties, bow ties, all ranges of lengths and widths and patters. _Technicolor vomit on metal rods. Nice._

After a kindly-looking older man enters the room (Carter introduced him as Henry), everything is kind of a blur. Lance has lost track of just how much he’s tried on, and Henry keeps shaking his head in disapproval, muttering, “No, no. That won’t do” before returning to the racks for the next round.

In the wall of mirrors, Lance sees the man from the storefront appear in the doorway. He leans in and whispers something to Carter, then disappears.

“Excuse me for a moment, fellas. I’ve got a call to make.” Carter’s got that look in his eyes like he’s up to no good and a smirk that screams ‘watch this’ as he taps at his phone screen. Lance isn’t quite sure what his brother’s up to, but he does hear a hushed “Mister Stark, hi” as Carter’s steps out with his phone to his ear.

Lance goes through at least three more suits before something finally blows him away. He’d look like absolute perfection with a fresh shave and a less messy hairstyle. Henry seems to agree because when he takes a step back, he just grins.

“I think we’ve got the right one.”

“Yeah,” Lance breathes out refusing to take his eyes off the mirror. The mirror stares back silently with the same awed expression. He’s not sure if he’s referring to the suit or Steve when he says, “Yeah, definitely the right one.”

 

*****

 

 _I’m alright. I’m fine_. Well, those are certainly the biggest damn lies Steve Rogers has ever told. He is, in fact, very far from fine. There’s a nervous twitch in his hands and his heart feels like it’s trapped in the confines of his throat, the muscles squeezing every time he takes a breath. It’s not entirely uncomfortable, though. Not once he’s standing on the rooftop.

What stands to be an impressive enough view from the patio area is just made that much more incredible by the attention to detail. The night sky is dark and clear, but the city lights below give leave a glow beneath the glass railings. There’s a long, wide row of white fabric across the center of the tiling. The entire aisle is lined with enormous, elegant floral arrangements, and at the end is the only table left outside. In front of that table stands Lance fucking Tucker.

That’s probably the most beautiful thing about it all. He’s standing there with his hair slicked back in its usual half-pompadour style, just a little taller than usual. The smile on his face is an actual _smile_ , not that shit-eating smirk that Steve used to want to smack off his perfect face. And don’t even get Steve started on his suit… His black slacks clung to every curve of his legs, accentuating his muscular thighs, shapely calves and that pert, firm ass that Steve’s already dying to get his mouth on. The color of his jacket matches his eyes and the shawl cut lapels highlight the planes of his sculpted chest. Beneath the jacket is a standard white button-down, and knotted flawlessly around the collar is a bow tie.

“Steve.”

He’s barely two feet away when Lance speaks, and it stops him dead in his tracks. He’s missed that, the sound of his name coming from those lips. The gentle thud of his heart rate climbs to a thunderous roar in his ears, and there’s a slight burst of hurt in his chest. He can’t hear himself speaking, but he thinks he says something along the lines of, “Lance, what the _fuck_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> Будь сильным, Стив. Он вернется. - Be strong, Steve. He will return.
> 
> Comments would be great! : D Particularly if you spotted the easter eggs.
> 
> In addition, I'm considering adding a fourth part to this series to cover the things that don't fit, such as meta, deleted scenes, etc. Would that be of any interest to anyone?


	3. ... In Your Favor

“Lance, what the _fuck_?”

Right then, Lance’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach, and he feels fucking sick. He should’ve known. He should never have been naïve enough to think that this would work. What he did, what he said, it’s unforgivable. He’ll never forgive himself, so how could he ever expect Steve to forgive him?

_Remember, Tucker, this isn’t a fairytale. You don’t get a happy ending._

“Steve, I’m - “

“What is all this?” He gestures to literally everything surrounding them while a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. It’s not quite a permanent fixture, but it’s a work in progress, and Lance is completely dumbfounded. He honestly believes for a moment that Steve’s going to tear his head off. There’s no reason for him to be any less than absolutely livid, so this is a pleasant surprise.

“An apology,” Lance replies sheepishly, ducking his head. There’s no way he’s going to be able to look Steve in the eye. Not right now, at least.

Steve takes a few steps forward while Lance shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks. His fingers are itching to reach out and touch Steve. Hold him, kiss him, anything. But he’s not sure he can do that yet. Instead, his lip catches between his teeth, and he’s hoping that by biting down, it’ll somehow mask his vulnerability.

“Lance…” Steve’s tone is that of concern, and ah, fuck, he’s crying again, isn’t he?

Lance brings his gaze up to Steve’s, not bothering to wipe the stray tears from his cheeks. Droplets cling to his eyelashes. That seems to be the only thing soothing the anxious burn of his skin.

“Steve, I’m sorry.” The voice coming from Lance’s mouth sounds nothing like him. It’s wrecked, dejected, _weak_. “I’m so so sorry.”

“Don’t. Don’t do that. We both fucked up, and we’re gonna fix it.”

“I-I’m so fucking selfish. I ju-“

Before he can finish his sentence, Steve closes the gap between them. He wraps his massive tree trunk arms around Lance and pulls him into that solid brick wall chest. One arm stays put while the other moves to catch Lance’s lower jaw with a palm. Without warning, those plump, plush lips come crashing down on Lance, and relief floods through his nerve endings like water breaking from a dam. It feels like home. Steve’s arms fit perfectly around Lance’s leaner frame. Steve’s mouth slots perfectly against his. He’s almost certain that whatever unknown deity created Steve had hand-carved every inch of him to match with Lance like a puzzle piece.

There’s no anger behind the kiss. It’s fueled by desperation and frustration. He can taste the relief on Steve’s tongue, the remorse and hurt and loneliness all creeping in at the corners. A blanket of saltiness coats the kiss, and Lance realizes that Steve’s crying too. He’s every bit as sorry as Lance is.

Whether it’s seconds or hours that they kiss, Lance doesn’t really know. All he knows is that when Steve pulls away, he’s not ready for it. It doesn’t matter that his lungs are empty or that his entire face is wet with tears or that his lips are swollen and numb or… None of it matters, Not at all. Not in the slightest. If he loses Steve again, well, this time it might actually kill him.

Steve rests his forehead against Lance’s, eyes pinched shut and chest heaving. Tears are still spilling out, and they stand in silence for a moment. Lance sniffles, bringing his hands to Steve’s cheeks. He needs to feel this with his own two hands or it might just disappear. This has to be real.

If this isn’t real, it’ll crush whatever’s left of his little black heart.

“If this is a joke, Steve, it’s not funny,” he whispers, letting his fingertips curl against the coarse hair of Steve’s beard.

Steve shakes his head fervently, still holding Lance against him. A few more quick little kisses are stolen like Steve’s trying to prove something. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s trying to validate those words he still hasn’t said. Maybe it doesn’t mean a god damn thing.

Taking Lance’s hand, Steve runs the Olympian’s fingers across his cheek, tracing the wet path left behind. There’s a pause before Steve finally says, “Does that feel like a joke to you?”

Tucker’s heart is slowly climbing up his throat like a spider, moving with leisurely precision. It’s methodical and maddening as the legs stick and poke and prod. He can’t tell if it tickles or if he desperately needs to vomit. This isn’t a sensation he particularly enjoys, and he needs to make it stop. It’s unpleasant.

“I’m sorry, Steve,” he murmurs again, fighting down a fresh wave of tears. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sweetheart, you gotta stop. It’s okay, I swear. I ain’t mad at you. Never was.” Steve steals another barely-there peck. His voice is so soft and sweet, it lulls Lance into what he’s certain is a false sense of security.

Suddenly, there’s a space between them now. Not a large one, but it’s there nonetheless. The hand Steve has against Lance’s jaw moves to grip his chin, insuring that even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to turn his head. Lance can’t open his eyes. He’s afraid of what he’ll find on the other side of them.

“Look at me, Lance.” The honeyed tone Steve takes on convinces him to comply, but the brunette adamantly looks anywhere other than the good Captain’s face. But Steve persists, repeating, “Lance. _Look. At. Me.”_

This is a game of Russian Roulette. Except the gun’s fully loaded, save for one chamber. The odds of Lance’s first squeeze of the trigger being that empty one are 5-to-1 against him. He doesn’t exactly like those odds, but fuck it. Fuck it all. This is going to kill him anyways, right? Why try to stall the inevitable.

His gaze flits up to meet Steve’s bloodshot blue eyes. This is it. He knows what he has to do, and the barrel is already to his head. The gunpowder words have settled on his tongue already, he just needs to apply the right amount of pressure and wait for the –

“Carter told me everything.”

 

*****

 

_“Steve Rogers?” the man confirms with an oddly certain look. It’s not so much a question as a statement. Steve nods, noticing the large garment bag cautiously laying across his forearm. “I’m Carter Baizen.”_

_The corners of the doppelgänger’s mouth curl up slowly and jesus fuck, he even smiles like Lance. If Steve didn’t know any better, he’d swear the two were brothers. For all he knows, they just might be. He and Lance hadn’t exactly talked in great detail, especially not as far as their families are concerned._

_“Mr. Rogers, I was asked to see to it that these made their way to you.” Something is off. Steve can just feel it. There’s a mirthful look in his eyes that doesn’t match his smile, and his heart is fluttering faster than the wings of a hummingbird. He hides his nerves well. Steve wouldn’t have known if it weren’t for his keen hearing and the fact that his masseter muscle keeps twitching every time he swallows. If he were to venture a guess, he’d say this guy is hiding something. It sets Steve’s teeth on edge, and he’s already carefully plotting an exit strategy in case he needs it._

_Taking the bag so very delicately by the hanger, the man holds it out to him. Steve’s not exactly sure what to do with this situation as a whole. It’s unusual for people to show up at his door (aside from Syd needing his key; Sam has his own key and Natasha, well, she never knocks. She just comes in like she lives there, even if the door is locked). When he doesn’t move to take the bag, the Tucker clone seems to understand the question, though it hasn’t been asked aloud._

_“I’m sure you’re a bit confused, and there’s quite a bit of explaining to do. May I come in?”_

_Steve hesitates, placing a turned foot to the inside of the door. This kid doesn’t appear to pose a threat, but he’s not taking any chances. His eyes narrow for a fraction of a second. It would’ve looked an awful lot like a twitch if it weren’t for the vibe Steve knows he’s giving off._

_Carter raises his hands the best he can, almost as if to placate Steve. His expression is slightly amused, not a trace of worry or fear on his near-perfect face. He understands the apprehension whole-heartedly; that much is obvious._

_“My brother sent me.” So they are brothers. “He’d like to see you tonight, if you don’t mind.”_

_Instinct tells Steve it’s safe, so he opens the door wider and invites Carter in. The two make their way into the kitchen, where the younger ~~Tucker~~ man lays the bag across the tabletop. His hand dips into the pocket of his jacket and produces an envelope. It stays between his index and middle fingers as he wiggles it in the air. The smirk returns, and Carter cocks a challenging eyebrow, holding the little paper package out._

_Steve is so confused. There’s a strangely familiar man leaning against his kitchen table with an envelope in his hand and a garment bag that’s contents are unknown. Clearly, they’re both for Steve; if he’s wrong, this is undoubtedly going to be the weirdest fucking conversation Steve’s ever had._

_It doesn’t help that this strangely familiar man is so strangely familiar because he happens to look almost identical to the man Steve’s in love with, but somehow isn’t him. Steve wishes desperately that it were Lance standing in front of him, though he’s settling for the imposter for now. That’s far better than never seeing Lance ever again, he supposes._

_“So, uh,” Steve starts, folding his arms across his chest. “What can I do for you?”_

_Carter, the fake Lance, gives him a hauntingly well-known grin and extends him arm just a little further, jostling the envelope without a word until Steve takes the not-so-subtle hint. As soon as Steve’s hesitant fingers close around the short side, Carter lets go and waits patiently. Inside, Steve finds a small rectangle of cardstock. Something is printed on the front. Not by a printer, but by hand. He knows the handwriting. He used to see it in the gym’s sign-in book every day._

_Lance._

Fiola. 8 o’clock.

Your driver will arrive around 7:30.

Don’t be late, Steve.

\- xo

_He arches an eyebrow, looking up through his lashes at Carter. The brunette’s little grin shifts into an almost predatory full-blown smile. Steve isn’t quite sure what that look means. It’s somewhat unsettling, but in no way suspicious, so he steels his nerves and rests his weight against the counter behind him while his fingers toy with the edges of the paper._

_“What’s this about?” The question is quiet as Steve holds the paper up with the ink facing Carter. Unsurprisingly, Carter’s eyes never leave Steve’s. He already knows what’s on the card._

_“I think you already know the answer to that,” Carter replies softly. “He wants a chance to make things right.”_

_If he wants to make things right, why hasn’t he called? Why hasn’t he returned any of Steve’s texts? Why didn’t he show up here himself? Steve doesn’t want any sort of grandeur. He just wants a simple exchange of words. He wants to tell Lance that, yes, he does love him back, and he’s sorry for his hand in where things went wrong. But he’s not going to do that through someone else._

_“Look,” Carter begins again. “Lance is shit at expressing his feelings, okay? He didn’t exactly have the strongest support system growing up, especially not where my father is concerned. He pretty much just had me and – “_

_“Wait,” Steve butts in. “What do you mean ‘where your father’s concerned’?”_

_Carter lets out a sharp sigh and drops his gaze to the floor. He chews at the inside of his lip for a moment, and Steve can see his gears turning. Does he lie, tell the partial truth, or tell Steve everything? Steve knows because he’s seen the same look on Lance before. The difference, however, is that Carter takes much less time to come to a conclusion._

_“If you want the entire story, I have time to tell it. If not, then we’ll leave it at this: My father is not a kind man, Steve. Particularly when it comes to Daniel Tucker and his son.”_

*****

 

“So, he told you _everything_ then?” It’s more of a soft statement than a question. Steve reaches across the table they’ve seated themselves at to grab Lance’s hand and Lance looks down at the tabletop. A part of him wants to be angry with Carter, but another part of him is grateful that he didn’t have to tell Steve himself. It’s difficult to explain that he grew up being groomed to hate himself or that he was always made to never feel good enough. It was instilled in him at a young age that he’d never amount to anything because he’s not a Baizen. He’s a Tucker, and that’s synonymous with failure.

But Lance isn’t a failure. Lance is a fucking Olympic gold medalist. He’s accomplished more than Gregory Baizen ever will.

“You don’t need to justify who you are or why you do the things you do,” Steve reassures just as quietly like he’s reading Lance’s mind. As he’s giving Lance’s fingers a gentle squeeze, he adds: “I love you regardless of why.”

If it were even remotely possible, Lance would’ve fallen even more in love over that sentence alone.

“My shit upbringing is no excuse for what I did to you. It was cruel and unfair, and I’m so sorry, Stevie.”

“Stop apologizing,” Steve sighs with a kind smile. “I get it, and I’m not angry. I never was. A little caught off-guard, sure, but never angry. When your brother showed up…”

_“All ready to go, aside from one last thing,” Carter grins. There’s a large glass bottle in his grip, splintering the remaining sunlight into sparkling confetti and scattering it across the rooftop._

_"What's-?"_

_"2012 Bernard Dugat Py Mazis Chambertin Grand Cru. Dropped $850 on it, and that was before the import fee. I was saving it for a special occasion," Carter chuckles dryly, turning the bottle in his hand._

_"Please tell me you're not thinkin'a-"_

_"This is a special occasion, Tuck. I want you to have it."_

_Lance is speechless._

_“Carter, this is…” Lance has always been a smooth-talker, but right now, he can’t find words grand enough to express his gratitude. The only word that comes out is simply, “How?”_

_“Well, Giani, as I’m sure you already know, owed me a favor. I won’t say what for. He agreed to reserve the rooftop for me tonight and shut down the remainder of the restaurant to give you two some privacy. His staff is being handsomely compensated for their time, he can say Captain America has dined here, and you get the best view of the city. The wine is-”_

_“No, why are you doing all this?” He doesn’t mean to sound ungrateful because he’s beyond thankful for everything Carter’s done. There’s no way Lance could’ve even thought of this on his own, let alone pulled it off. But given their history, why would Carter want to help him? It doesn’t make sense._

_Carter looks at Lance with this expression like he’s just been struck across the face. It slathers a solid coat of guilt on Lance’s mind, and he feels awful. He makes a conscious effort to keep his expression soft and his voice even._

_“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way,” he sighs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I just don’t understand why you’re being so nice to me. We both know I’ve been pretty fucking awful the last few years. I wouldn’t’ve helped me if I were you.”_

_The hurt melts from Carter’s face, and he cracks a small smile._

_“Because I want you to be happy.”_

And he finally is. Against all odds, he actually is.

Because for the second time in his life, things actually worked out in Lance Tucker's favor.

**Author's Note:**

> Harass me on tumblr: @sebeefstianstan


End file.
